“We’ve been infiltrated,” said Carol, scanning the assembled members of the W.I. “I saw our cake recipe on Val Clark’s shopping list in Tesco this morning.”
“But… it’s only a Victoria Sponge!” said Julie.
Carol flung her arms in the air. “How many times do I have to say it? Use the code name!”
It was fair to say that former Superintendent Carol was finding retirement a struggle. It had only been six weeks but already she was exasperated.
Ian, her husband, had welcomed his own retirement like a long-lost relative.
“Just relax,” he said as he reclined on a sun-lounger that evening at their neighbours’ barbecue, while Carol stood like a spare part, refusing to sit.
“Why does Sue slather on so much make-up? She must have something to hide…”
Ian ignored her, biting into his burger and flinching when it burned him.
Carol raised an eyebrow. “It pays to be alert, Ian.”
Maybe he was right, though, she thought grudgingly. She should probably… circulate.
Sue, flanked by two women from the street, was throwing her head back in an exaggerated laugh, pearls and teeth glinting in the evening sun. As Carol approached, they stopped talking and stood to attention like guilty school children.
“Evenin’ all,” Carol said, in an attempt at humour. The women laughed nervously.
“Carol!” said Sue. “We were just talking about… Help me out, Melody, my memory’s going!”
Later, when Carol attempted to join a conversation with the men huddled around the barbecue, one of them looked at her, nudged the others, then turned and whistled as they fell silent.
She was used to this sort of reaction from civilians. In fact, it’d always been an excuse to distance herself at social events, or better still, avoid them altogether. But if she was to survive retirement, that needed to change. The thing was, the twitchiness displayed tonight was above and beyond the usual level.
It continued all week. Snatches of chatter over fences, floating into her garden like birdsong, in which she thought she heard her name. And a higher-than-average number of deliveries on the street, according to her stats.
As she pulled into the driveway after the excruciating hair appointment Ian had booked for her “to pamper yourself,” the neighbours scattered like mice.
“What’s going on around here?” she called to Ian as she walked in the front door. “I’ll get to the bottom of it.”
“It’s your birthday,” he said, handing her a glass of champagne. “Put your feet up and get to the bottom of this first.”
Carol tried to relax, but the clamouring outside intensified. She marched out to investigate.
The street was lined with tables and adorned with bunting.
“Surprise! Happy birthday Carol!” chimed the neighbours.
Carol put down the taser and took a slice of cake. Maybe this retirement business wasn’t so bad after all.
“Don’t think she noticed the cocaine,” Bill winked, ever the joker.
Mouth still full of cake, Carol didn’t miss a beat. “I heard that!”
